


Enjoying Silence

by mishkinat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angel John, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Depression, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John is a sweetie, Mental Instability, One Shot, Poor Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, john is a saviour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-13 00:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9097489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishkinat/pseuds/mishkinat
Summary: Sherlock has spiralled into despair after John has left to start a family. He finds himself deeper and deeper in hell without his faithful blogger to set him straight. How did he ever live without him?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying my hand at writing more so I am sorry if this is terrible   
> Thanks for checking this far, though. :)

Something was wrong. Very wrong, deadly wrong. It was turning into spring and Sherlock Holmes did not want a case.  Nobody noticed, at first. Not even Sherlock. The first person to point it out stumbled into the room, lightly tapped the door saying, 

"Yoo hoo!" Mrs Hudson placed some tea and biscuits on the coffee table and pulled open the curtains, fluttering and cheerful like the most perfect mother. "You should let the sun in here more often, Sherlock. It's good for you!"

He nodded absently in reply, running a hand over his face, repressing a sigh. 

"Have you not got a case, then?" She frowned and reached out to touch his shoulder. He shrugged away her touch. "Oh, dear. You should call John. I'm going out into town, I'm having tea with some of the girls. I'll bring you back something, to cheer you up." She left the room still cheerful, albeit oblivious to the true mood Sherlock was in. He carefully listened to the footsteps hobbling around downstairs before he heard the rattle of the door locking. Quiet. Silence. It was a horrible, harrowing silence. It was numbing and reminded him of just how alone he was. He tried humming, clicking his fingers and jumping up and down. Nothing worked. He felt as if he were going mad. Maybe he was.

His heart thumped in his chest. Thump. Thump. Thump. How alone he must be, to only hear his own heart? He clenched his fists and grit his teeth, marching into his bedroom. Needle. Where the hell was it? It was like an itch, a longing. For far too long now, the silence had been what he feared. The emptiness of the flat, Mrs Hudson away, Lestrade no longer coming with cases because Sherlock had howled at him about how he'd  _just like to be alone._ Now he firmly regretted that decision. Then, there was John. He had ditched Sherlock for a wife and child and while Sherlock still saw the care in John's eyes, he knew that John did not fully understand the depth of pain and feeling of loss his leaving had caused him. Maybe it was ridiculous, but he often felt ridiculous when he was sentimental. But now look at him. He stared into the mirror and took a shaky, deep breath.

He yelled loudly. He didn't shout out anything in particular, just a horrible empty noise that was full of  _emotion._ What would Mycroft think of him now? He slammed a fist into the mirror and it cracked, some shards wedged into his fist. He yelled more, not out of pain but out of a need for some damned noise. It echoed around his room, through the flat and downstairs. It felt somewhat of a relief. In his mind the echoes belonged to his best friend. Now completely numb, Sherlock stared at the blood dripping from his finger and knuckles. The sight of it did not bother him, but the lack of feeling pain did. He never felt anything. What a joke, he cried to himself, falling to his knees. For years, he had denied himself feelings and sentiment - weaknesses, he'd called them. But he still had had them, he had just repressed them. Now he was empty, numb, without his so-called weaknesses, and he felt worse than ever. The pressure of everything caved in his head feeling like everything was burning. He reached for the needle- his breath of fresh air. A last breath, is what he wanted.

Why did he feel like this? John had left him, he was bored, alone. But it was more than that, too. He had finally realised that he was a human being, with a heart that pumped blood and emotions and feelings and he felt love and he realised he was  _alone_ and  _useless._

As he dropped the needle, he fell into that familiar state of mind. Everything felt cosy and comfortable there. It was peaceful, but twisted. Everything here was jaded and fake, like a plastic wonderland. But to him, it was more real than his real life. Here there was music, chatter, footsteps. Noise. It was busy yet comforting. 

It lasted a while but it warmed his heart. He had found John, somewhere. He sat across from him, smiling. The chatter, the singing, the white noise surrounded him, like an angelic chorus of meaningless sound. It didn't really matter to him, if it were in his mind or in reality because at this point it could hardly be identified which was which. The noises grew louder. John was there, silently staring down at him now. Sherlock twisted his neck to get a better glance at his dearest friend. The blond man had a face written with concern, almost fear. Sherlock did not like that. All of a sudden the noise burst into a louder, crackling, booming, screeching, howling mess of sound, he winced as if the sudden change had physically hurt him. He felt suffocated. He gasped for air. He reached out his hand towards John, now fully aware he was hallucinating. Then the panic set in.

Then, as if by magic, the hand Sherlock reached out for met his own, and it was real. Like being drenched in freezing cold water, Sherlock plunged back into reality, gasping and writhing in pain. 

With great fear of it being fake, he glanced up. Relief flooded his heart. A hand grabbed his wrist and the man in front of him was breathing as heavily as he was.

"Sherlock- Sherlock, can you hear me?" 

"John." Sherlock barely whispered. His eyes struggled to stay open.

"Thank Christ." John sighed and breathed deeply.

 

Around an hour later, Sherlock had mostly lost all his delirium. The two sat, cross-legged in front of each other, staring. There was no blame or anger on John's face, just sadness and concern. John noticed Sherlock looked exhausted.

"Sher-" John croaked in a voice full of emotion. "I'm sorry. I should have known."

Sherlock looked down and twitched his mouth. Oh, John. It was never, ever your fault.

Sherlock touched John's wrist. John looked up in surprise. "John, please. Don't. It is not your fault."

"Sherlock." John wiped away a tear.

"I just felt so alone. I'd never felt that before. Never so strong." Sherlock mumbled.

John was silent, he let his friend release.

"I felt so different, John. As if me without you here was not really me at all. The silence was horrible, but then-back there, with the...There was so much noise. Too much. Then when I saw your face, I was thrown back here."

"Sometimes it is good to enjoy the silence. Your mind, Sherlock. It's like you say, you can't turn it off and on. But I think sometimes your mind churns on for so long your heart can't keep up. It throws you off track. But you are allowed both, Sherlock. Mind and heart. You get so busy, so into everything you do, and with such precision that it is a privilege to watch, but when you burnout, it turns chaotic. You get thrown into an abyss when you are on your own with no case, dammit, I should have known better." 

"John..." Sherlock, for once, had no words. John knew exactly how he had felt, and for once the weight was lifted from his heart. 

"I'll always be here for you, Sherlock. Cos I know you've got my back too. When you get down to it, it is really just me and you, despite my family and yours. It's different, but it is not over."

"I-" Sherlock paused. He smiled and pulled himself and John to their feet. "Thank you, John."

Sherlock felt the sting of the glass in his hand, which John had not even noticed until he let out a little yelp of pain. But he loved it. He loved the feeling. Perhaps he shouldn't love it, but he did. He could feel. He had senses and feelings and he understood pain. He was human. John Watson had shown him that. There, right then, Sherlock knew that no matter what were to happen, it would always be John Watson to save his life, his mind and his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave comments/kudos to see if I should try and write more of this stuff.


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